


To The Bone

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Series: Mathomathon 2008 [4]
Category: Blake's 7
Genre: M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has secrets. Avon accidentally reveals one of his to Blake, who is more understanding than Avon expects.</p><p>(no actual nookie, beyond one kiss.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Hobbits give gifts to others on their birthday. A Mathom is a useless, but too good to throw away, Hobbit gift. Like a knick knack.
> 
> Back in 2008 I held a Mathomathon on my LJ for my birthday, asking my friends to request me to write fic. I wound up starting the day before my birthday, so none of them are long, but everyone got a fic. :^)  
> jekesta's prompt : __  
> Oh, would you write me something with Blake and Avon -fic where they kiss. And maybe Avon is a bit scared or a bit upset or a bit HAVING AN EMOTION HE WISHES HE WASN'T HAVING, and Blake is kissing him. I would like fic where Avon has cut his hand? Or Blake. And where one of them uses the word 'magnificent'.

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

The blood flowed rather more quickly than he wanted. It had been very stupid to cut his hand. He should have stuck with his arms and chest. Or he should at least have taken the precaution of keeping a healing pad in his cabin. But that made it too easy; he wanted not only the release of opening his skin and letting the pressure flow out, he wanted to _feel_ the pain, sharp and clean, cutting through the cold fog surrounding him. He wanted it to be _real_ , not something to be waved away with a wave of magic healing wand.

But he also didn't want to bleed out in his cabin. He got up with an exasperated sigh, put down the laser cutter, and wrapped a clean undershirt around his hand.

He met no one on the way to the medical unit, which wasn't surprising, as it was the nominal 'dog-watch' shift, and everyone who wasn't on duty was asleep.

Or should have been. He took two steps into the room and halted, startled to find Blake there, injecting himself with something. For a moment they stared at each other. Avon decided he wasn't going to ask what Blake was doing, that way Blake couldn't ask how he had been so stupid as to wind up in this condition.

"Avon!" Blake's expression shifted from guilty to concerned. "What happened?"

All right, so Blake could still ask. "I cut myself," Avon said, honestly and lying at the same time. "If you wouldn't mind handing me a healing pad?"

Instead of doing that, Blake pulled out a chair. "Sit down before you fall down, man, you're white to the eyes."

Avon obeyed, mainly because it would be far more embarrassing if Blake had to pick him up from the floor. "Spare me the clinical description. Healing pad?" He held out his hand to remind Blake, who seemed to be fascinated by Avon's face. Avon was too disconnected from it at the moment to hazard a guess as to what expression it portrayed. He tried to feel it, but all he got was the same depressing gray sense of futility, failure and guilt that normally engulfed him. Damn, the relief from cutting wasn't lasting any time at all. 

Blake still didn't hand him a healing pad. Instead he brought one over, unwrapped the shirt, and looked at the slice. "Do you need it disinfected, or did you sterilize the cutter first?"

Avon swallowed hard. So much for deceiving Blake. "The cutter was clean."

Blake nodded and used the healing pad until the wound was sealed. It only took a few seconds, as it was a shallow slash. He released Avon's hand afterward and set down the healing pad. "Take off your shirt." It wasn't a request.

Avon scowled and obeyed. It was simpler. Blake would be disgusted, or sympathetic, or concerned, and he would say some platitudes and Avon would thank him without meaning it, and then they could both forget about it. Blake looked him over thoroughly, silently, expressionlessly. Then he leaned forward and put his hand over Avon's heart. 

"What?" Avon started to move away, but Blake's other hand was cupping the back of his head.

Blake said softly, "You are magnificent, Avon." And then he kissed him.

It went on for a long time. At first Avon tried to get away, but Blake wouldn't let him go, wouldn't let him withdraw into the cold, gray, nothing. Finally Avon gasped and began kissing back, putting his arms around Blake and holding him, feeling Blake's warmth against his chilled skin. When Blake released him at least, Avon looked at him, at Blake's light-filled eyes, at his flushed cheeks and swollen mouth. "It doesn't help, Blake."

"I know," Blake said, tracing the outline of Avon's mouth. 

"And you can't substitute sex for what I need."

"I know." Blake laid his palm flat across a criss-cross of silver scars that spelled 'ANNA'. "But we can give each other the comfort of friends, can't we?"

Tentatively, Avon raised his healed hand. Blake grasped it. "Well, " Avon said, "it couldn't hurt."


End file.
